


Operating on Instinct

by eirenical (chibi1723)



Series: Operating on Instinct [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Animal instincts translated to were-humans, Bi-Curiosity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rimming, Slash, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/pseuds/eirenical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott barely heard the words.  He was too busy listening to the heartbeat underneath them.  That heartbeat had already been elevated from Stiles' fear at the intruder in his bedroom, and it had kicked up another notch just a moment ago... but for the life of him, Scott couldn't figure out if that increase had started when Stiles had said he hadn't expected Scott to show... or a few seconds earlier when Stiles had said that he forgave him.  Scott whimpered again, pressed himself a little closer, shifted his inspection to Stiles' split lip.  When he shifted his fingers to ghost over it, though, that was when Stiles finally had enough.</p><p>Jerking away from Scott's feather-light touch, heart beating even faster than before, Stiles said, "Seriously, bro!  Lay off!"</p><p>Scott froze.  Those words... there was real anger undercutting those words.  He pulled his hand back and pulled himself back enough to meet Stiles' gaze, to take in his flushed cheeks.  Scott said, slowly, heart sinking, "You <i>did</i> expect me to show up.  You didn't just expect it, you were depending on it.  You were counting on me... and I failed you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operating on Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> OK. The promised almost 8400 words is now over 8500 words. Funny how that always happens when I edit. O_o;;;
> 
>  **Title:** Operating on Instinct  
>  **Fandom:** Teen Wolf  
>  **Pairing:** Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Word Count:** 8,555  
>  **Warnings:** Slash, rimming, spoilers through the season 2 finale
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** _Teen Wolf_ does not belong to me. It belongs to the brilliant Jeff Davis and all the other writers, producers, etc., who work with him. No harm was meant. I'm just playing with these guys, I’ll put them back where I found them when I’m done… more or less intact. ^_~
> 
>  ** _January 4, 2013:_** I've had this sitting on my computer since before Yuletide week, but I forced myself to leave it alone until Yuletide was over and done. For anyone who remembers or is interested, this started out life as [this outline](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/38026519747/have-you-ever-written-a-story-outline-that-so-amused) and grew from there. ^_~
> 
> I mean… all those instincts that we focus on translating from wolf to human for this show… and I have _yet_ to see anyone tackle a canine's propensity for sticking his or her nose in the crotch of every random stranger he meets. *coughs* Obviously this behavior would be frowned upon in polite society… but what's a little crotch-sniffing among friends? *eg* *waggles eyebrows*
> 
> In my head, this is vaguely sequel-y to [If You Keep On Believing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/582014), but other than a reference to a mug of hot chocolate and a general continuation of Stiles' mental state, this can operate as a stand-alone. Enjoy? ^_^
> 
> * * *

"So, did you catch up to her?"

Stiles jumped, startling sideways into the foyer wall, at the unexpected voice. When he turned around, his father was standing in the hallway, a mug in his hands and a concerned but encouraging look on his face. And for the life of him, Stiles couldn't puzzle out what his father was asking. He understood the words -- they weren't that complicated -- they even made sense strung together, but in the absence of any useful side information the sheer genericness of the question left him at a loss for an answer. "What, Dad? And Jesus, warn a guy before you sneak up behind him next time! Well... wait. Scratch that. Probably not a great idea to warn most people you'd be sneaking up on, considering your line of work, but warn _me_ , anyway, OK?" he said.

Stiles' father gave him an apologetic look, "Sorry, son. I suppose I hoped I was waiting up to congratulate you...?" He lifted an eyebrow.

Stiles blinked in confusion. "Congratulate me? Why would you want to..." He trailed off as his father started to frown... because that wasn't a confused or a sad frown that was starting on his father's face. It was his suspicious frown -- the one the sheriff wore when he'd begun to realize that his son had done something... not quite legal. Stiles was all too familiar with how quickly a sympathetic father could turn into a disappointed sheriff once that frown settled. And, he just couldn't handle that on top of everything else that had gone down tonight.

 _Did I catch up to her? Hoping to congratulate me...? What... Oh! **Damn** it. Good one, Stiles. Real smooth. Way to trip over your own lies like a rank amateur,_ Stiles thought, _You're better than that! **Idiot.**_ He hardly had to fake the self-directed look of disgust that he painted over his features next as he picked up the sentence as though he'd never paused it to begin with, "...do that? I mean, what universal realignment would make you think that that attempt would have gone in my favor?"

The sheriff's frown faded away as though it had never been, but the crestfallen look that replaced it was a thousand times worse. He reached out a hand to grip Stiles' shoulder and said, "Oh, son... I'm so sorry. Why...?"

Stiles snorted out a laugh, "Why did she turn me down, Dad? She's Lydia freaking Martin and I'm just Stiles. She doesn't need a reason to turn me down... twice. In one day." He shook his head, "Hell, it's not even the first time she's done it." At his father's raised eyebrow, Stiles said, "I believe the record number of times Lydia has spurned my advances in a single day is six." He cleared his throat, "To be fair, though, we were in fourth grade and I didn't know to leave well enough alone."

Stiles' father shook his head, then pulled Stiles into a tight hug, whispered into his son's ear, "She doesn't know what she's missing, son. Someday, some girl will and you'll forget all about her."

Stiles forced himself to agree, to allow his father the comfort of consoling his only son. This was what teenaged normalcy was all about -- boy wins game; boy courts girl; girl rejects boy; father consoles boy. There were no werewolves involved, no psychotic geriatric hunters with grudges, nothing out of the ordinary. For just a brief moment, resting in his father's arms, Stiles allowed himself the luxury of imagining that this was his life. It was a nice life, a pleasant life. 

Hiding his grim smile over his father's shoulder, Stiles thought, _It's also boring as hell._ And that was the simple truth. What was life without a heart attack or three? Besides, that life wasn't Scott's life anymore... and where Scott went, Stiles would go, too. There was no use crying over it. Stiles pulled away from his father, reassured him that he was OK and that he just wanted to get some sleep, and fled up the stairs.

Though he wanted nothing more than to do exactly what he'd told his father he wanted -- to sleep -- Stiles knew he would regret it if he woke up still smelling like all the things he currently smelled like. He climbed into the shower, intending to just rinse off the worst of the grime, but when something unidentified and black oozed off his shoulder into the bottom of the tub -- after shrieking fit to break a window -- Stiles upgraded his clean-up to "scrub until my skin is raw, then scrub some more." He didn't want any part of Gerard anywhere near him, not after tonight, even if it was the bastard's mountain ash-laced heartblood.

He climbed out of the shower almost forty minutes later, skin still crawling from that scare. A small voice whispered in the back of his mind, "It's called hyper vigilance -- the persistent feeling of being under threat.” Right. Like Gerard's blood was going to somehow ooze back up through the drain and attack him while he slept. Like some goon was going to snatch him from his bedroom -- without his father even knowing, without Scott able to follow and rescue him, without him even having a chance to protest, much less fight back -- and drag him off to somewhere nice and quiet where he could be hurt at someone else's leisure.

Suddenly sleep was the last thing on Stiles' mind.

Stiles turned on his computer to browse the forums for a few of his favorite RPGs, but that quickly lost its appeal. He tried playing something mindless and hack-and-slash-y on his Xbox, but gave that up after getting killed twice on a part of the game he normally breezed through. His attempt at reading was a joke before it even started and not even his comic books were tempting tonight. Of course, there was nothing on TV but infomercials. Eventually he found himself flat on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling like it might have the answers he needed to reassure himself, might have the breathing mask he needed to hold off that feeling of drowning.

After a fruitless ten minutes, Stiles was forced to acknowledge that no answers were forthcoming... and that if they suddenly were, he might have to make a special trip to see Ms. Morell to figure out what new psychosis he'd developed that made him think ceilings could talk. 

Stiles flopped over onto his side and dragged his pillow over his head, resolutely attempting to fall asleep. He'd just about succeeded, too, when a quiet "snick" from the vicinity of the window had him bolting up off the bed, lacrosse stick in hand and heart racing, expecting the worst -- that Gerard had somehow come back from the dead to grab him a second time -- yet still hoping for the best -- that it was Derek once again taking advantage of the open-ended offer of hospitality that Stiles had never actually offered.

It was neither.

Too amped up to drop the lacrosse stick, Stiles brandished it in the intruder's direction and whisper-screamed, "What the hell, Scott? Can't at least one of you use the door like a fucking normal human being?"

Scott's eyes had gone almost comically wide when Stiles started shaking the lacrosse stick under his nose, but they narrowed at the last statement, "Who else has been climbing in your window?"

"My father is the sheriff, remember? He has a gun and he's been a little on edge tonight! Of all the lame-brained stunts you could-- wait. What?" Stiles said, stumbling to a verbal halt when his ears finally caught up to his tongue.

Scott frowned, tilted his head back and... sniffed the air. Stiles gaped at him for a minute then poked his friend in the shoulder with the lacrosse stick, "Scott, seriously. What the hell?"

Scott turned towards the window, sniffed the air in front of it, the ledge underneath. He frowned again, "Derek's been here. Why didn't you tell me he'd been here?" There was a layer of... _something_ in Scott's voice that sent a shiver up Stiles' spine. There was hurt there, a hint of a trust betrayed -- which was utterly ridiculous as it had been Scott who shoved Derek off on him to begin with -- and there was something darker underneath it. Scott sounded... he sounded angry. Scott turned, sniffing at the air in the rest of the room, "And Lydia was here. Recently. Why was _she_ here?" 

Stiles frowned. On top of everything else that had happened tonight, to be forced to defend his own social life -- or lack thereof -- to the only real friend he had was the final insult. He said, "What? I'm not allowed to have anyone but you in my room without needing a reason? What the hell, Scott? It's not like I have to answer to you for what I do." He then crossed his arms defensively over his chest... and promptly ruined any dramatic effect that might have had by nearly braining himself with the lacrosse stick he'd forgotten he was holding. His small yipe of startlement neatly drew Scott's attention back towards him, eyes narrowed in thought.

Scott took a step closer, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was all Scott, that same slightly goofy smile that Stiles had grown to love over the years firmly in place as he apologized, "I'm sorry, man. You're right, I just... I didn't come here to freak you out or get in a fight. I came here..." he trailed off, gaze drifting away from meeting Stiles'. When he spoke again, it was a harsh whisper, "You're hurt."

Stiles was starting to think he had brained himself with the lacrosse stick -- or maybe had gotten a concussion when he drove his Jeep through the warehouse loading door. He put a hand to his head and whimpered, "Scott... you are making this conversation impossible to follow, you know that? Why the hell are you even here? Shouldn't you be with Allison? I'm sure after tonight, the whole vendetta thing is off and she doesn't want to kill you anymore. In fact, I'm sure you two must have a bunch to talk about. Why don't you go climb in _her_ window and wake _her_ up and leave me in peace?"

Scoot shook his head, took another step closer, said quietly, "I was already there," then even more quietly, "She broke up with me."

Stiles stared at his friend, mouth falling open in dismay. It was a full minute before he could think of anything to say in response. For Stiles, that was a lifetime. Finally dropping the lacrosse stick, he put his hands on Scott's shoulders and squeezed gently, "Oh, man... I'm so sorry, Scott. If I'd known, I wouldn't have... I thought for sure that things would be OK, now -- that you'd find a way to work this out."

Scott shrugged, "It's OK." At Stiles' incredulous look, Scott's smile made another appearance, "No, really. It's OK. A lot has happened in the last few weeks and Allison... Stiles, I love her. That's not going to change, but..." He shrugged. "What is that they're always saying? 'If you love something, let it go?'"

"If it comes back to you it's yours..." Stiles said softly, then stopped, refusing to finish it.

"Exactly," Scott said. "I love her enough to let her go. If she comes back to me, then that will be wonderful, but if she doesn't..." He shrugged, "If she doesn't, then maybe it just wasn't meant to be. Loving her when and how I did kept me human when I needed it most, showed me how to _stay_ human when I needed it most. I'll always love her for that. I'll never forget her for that. But if that's all she was ever meant to be to me... it's OK. My love for her, for my pack, for my family, my drive to protect with this power and not destroy... that's my anchor, now. I don't need her for that. I'll be OK."

Stiles let out a long, slow breath, "Wow. That's deep." He smiled, a soft twinkle in his eyes, "Deeper than I expected."

Scott rolled his eyes, punched Stiles in the shoulder, "From me, you mean?"

"Yeah, man. From you. You know I love you, bro, but you're not always the brightest bulb in the pack when it comes to girls," Stiles said as he let go and turned to sit back down on his bed. When he reached up a hand to rub tiredly at his eyes, he winced, having forgotten about the mottled bruising on the left side of his face. A short whine brought Stiles' attention back around towards Scott. 

Scott slunk closer, shoulders hunched as he approached the bed, and sat down next to his best friend, "You _are_ hurt. I didn't... Stiles, I swear I didn't know. I didn't know it was Gerard that took you. I didn't realize he'd hurt you. And when your dad texted me to tell me he found you, I didn't even think... I didn't realize until you'd gotten to the warehouse and I saw the bruises..." He reached out a hand, then, as though he couldn't help himself, and started lightly tracing the outline of the bruise on Stiles' cheek.

"OK, buddy," Stiles said, nervous laughter teetering on the edge of his voice, "I forgive you. It's not like I was expecting you to show. Not really. You had other things to worry about. I knew that." Scott leaned in closer, sniffed lightly at the bruised area, frowned at the smell of damaged flesh that didn't heal in an instant. Stiles let out an undignified squeak and said, "OK! That's enough, Scott. You can back off any time you like, OK? I should really be getting to sleep, anyway. It's been a long night, you know?"

Scott barely heard the words. He was too busy listening to the heartbeat underneath them. That heartbeat had already been elevated from Stiles' fear at the intruder in his bedroom, and it had kicked up another notch just a moment ago... but for the life of him, Scott couldn't figure out if that increase had started when Stiles had said he hadn't expected Scott to show... or a few seconds earlier when Stiles had said that he forgave him. Scott whimpered again, pressed himself a little closer, shifted his inspection to Stiles' split lip. When he shifted his fingers to ghost over it, though, that was when Stiles finally had enough.

Jerking away from Scott's feather-light touch, heart beating even faster than before, Stiles said, "Seriously, bro! Lay off!"

Scott froze. Those words... there was real anger undercutting those words. He pulled his hand back and pulled himself back enough to meet Stiles' gaze, to take in his flushed cheeks. Scott said, slowly, heart sinking, "You _did_ expect me to show up. You didn't just expect it, you were depending on it. You were counting on me... and I failed you."

Stiles' cheeks flushed harder and he scooted away from Scott, trying for distance between them even though he wouldn't get very far without falling off his own bed. He cleared his throat, "No. It's fine, Scott. Really. It's fine."

Scott shook his head and inched closer, froze when Stiles winced at his approach. He said, "No... Stiles, it's not fine. I got so wrapped up in being the hero, in trying to save Jackson, that I forgot who was really important in all this. You're the one who's stuck by me since the beginning. You're my pack... I failed you... and it's not OK."

"I'm not your pack," Stiles' response was short, huffed out on an embarrassed breath, "I'm not... Scott, I'm not a werewolf, remember? I don't want to _be_ a werewolf."

"It doesn't matter." At Stiles' incredulous look, Scott shook his head, "You know that's not what I meant. Pack... family... it's just different words for the same thing. Stiles, you've _always_ been family to me. You don't need to turn furry once a month for that to stay true. You're family. You're pack. You're _mine_."

With that last utterance, Scott closed the distance between them again, reached up to touch the bruise on Stiles' cheek with more intent. Stiles winced, expecting a flare of pain at the touch and instead felt... relief. The pain eased, his cheek stopped throbbing, though the heat in it remained undiminished. Scott leaned in closer, sniffed the bruise again, then leaned in to nuzzle against it. Stiles tried to laugh it off, to pull back to get some distance, but was stopped by the wall at his back. Meanwhile, Scott was not willing to be deterred, again. He shifted up onto the bed to kneel next to Stiles, continued sniffing and feeling his way down Stiles' neck and torso, trying to find all the spots that didn't smell quite right -- that smelled of injury or felt of the heat of inflammation. And as he found those places, he drew the pain out of them as best he could.

By the time Scott finished his inspection, Stiles had stopped squirming, was, in fact, sitting more still and quiet than Scott had ever known him to do. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown. Scott smiled. It was rare to see his friend so speechless, so completely unable to articulate words. He leaned in again, nuzzled at Stiles' bruised cheek, once more. That was better. Stiles no longer smelled like injury, like fear. His heart rate had quieted, his breathing evened out and deep. Of course, it couldn't last. Nothing could keep Stiles quiet for long, even this.

"Thanks, buddy. Didn't realize that werewolves were living, breathing analgesics, but I appreciate it. That, uh... I'd say that makes up for whatever you think you need to make up for, right?" Stiles' words were quiet, spoken almost directly into Scott's ear with the way they were pressed together.

Scott leaned back, arched an eyebrow, "Why are you so eager to push me away?"

Stiles' mouth dropped open and Scott caught one of his hands flailing against the mattress out of the corner of his eye, smirked as that hand clenched, then started picking frantically at the bedspread. When Stiles answered him, "Uh... well... I'm _tired_ , for one" Scott didn't even need his werewolf hearing to know that it was a lie. He smirked down at his friend, then leaned in to nuzzle at his cheek, again, "You don't really want me to go, Stiles. I know you better than that." As Stiles' hand had another momentary flail beside them, Scott reached out and covered it with his own, "What if I want to be here as much as you want me to be here? What if I've finally clued in to the fact that you need me as much as I need you?" Scott pulled Stiles' hand towards him, bent his head to sniff at the pulse point in his wrist before nuzzling against it and saying, "What if I don't want to go?"

Stiles' breathing had quickened again, the pulse in his wrist thundering away under Scott's nose, but his reply to his friend was just as flippant and arrogant as though he were at school mouthing off to a teacher, "In that case... you missed a spot."

Scott lifted his face from Stiles' wrist to tilt his head quizzically at his friend. What injury could he have possibly...? Oh. _Oh._ Scott's mouth went abruptly dry as Stiles' tongue flicked out, again, dragging over the puffed up split in his lip. _That_ spot. Scott's smirk bled into a goofy grin as he leaned in to trace his fingers over the neglected injury. As the pain receded, Stiles flicked his tongue over his lip, again, as though disbelieving that the pain was truly gone... and caught Scott's finger, instead.

They froze then, staring into each others' eyes, neither one sure exactly how to proceed from here... or if they even wanted to. Scott was the one who eventually broke the silence with a strangled plea, unsure and scared, "I don't want you to push me away. I don't want you to _want_ to push me away. I can't do any of this without you."

Stiles let out a nervous bark of laughter, "Oh, right -- because I have all the answers, all the good plans, because you don't have time to sit in front of a computer and figure this all out for yourself, right? I've got to be good for _some_ thing, I suppose."

Scott growled, then, frustration coloring his tone as he shot back, " _No_ , Stiles. You're good at what you do and I won't deny that to soothe your feelings, but that's not why I need you. You... you remind me I'm human."

"I thought Allison did that," Stiles said, "Loving Allison." At Scott's frustrated growl, Stiles pulled his hand from his friend's grip to gesture wildly at him, "Dude, you _just_ said!"

A weary sigh nearly answered that all on its own. Scott shook his head, "I'm not talking about anchors, about controlling the shift. Look -- most of the people I'm around, these days... damn it, they're so messed up, Stiles! _You_ know that. Derek, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Peter -- fuck, let's not even talk about Peter, actually -- they've all got issues. Hell, their _issues_ have issues! I'm only wrapped up with them because of all this werewolf business. And Allison... could my situation with her get any more screwed up? With all of them, it's all fighting -- fighting and desperation and enemies and alphas and hunters and... with you, it's not, not always, anyway. With you, it's movies and Xbox and cold pizza and too much ice cream before bed. It's sleepovers and comic books and sneaking into your dad's porn collection."

Scott paused, blushed for a moment before continuing, "You knew who I was before I was a werewolf. You remember the scrawny kid who was never good enough for first line and who couldn't run half a mile without fighting an asthma attack. You and me, Stiles... it's always been you and me. Without you, that person I was -- that _human_ I was -- doesn't exist anymore. He's dead and gone as surely as if the bite had killed him. And Stiles... he doesn't want to die and he still doesn't want to be wrapped up in all the shit he's wrapped up in."

Stiles stared at Scott for a moment... two moments... three. After what seemed like an eternity's worth of scrutiny, Stiles finally nodded -- slowly, once. Then he smirked, "He'd rather be sneaking into my dad's porn collection, I bet. That's more fun than racing around the woods hiding from hunters any day."

Scott sagged against Stiles in relief and started to laugh, "Oh, man, you have no idea. That is _so_ not my idea of fun."

Hesitantly, Stiles wrapped his free arm around Scott's shoulders and hugged his friend to him, "Scott... I don't want to push you away. I don't think I ever will. It's like you said -- we're family. We're more than family." He huffed out a small laugh, "I guess we are pack."

At those last words, Scott froze in Stiles' embrace. There was something about those words, that acknowledgement... Scott shivered. He turned his face into Stiles' chest, took a long sniff at the bruises he knew were there, right under his friend's thin tee-shirt. When Stiles didn't immediately protest, Scott found himself giving in to the impulse, shifting up to sniff at the juncture of Stiles' neck, too. He didn't know where this was coming from, this need to imprint Stiles' scent in his memory, but Scott wasn't going to fight it. It could mean the difference between finding him in time and watching him get hurt next time. And next time... Scott growled softly under his breath. There wasn't going to _be_ a next time, if Scott had anything to say about it.

It wasn't until Scott shifted Stiles' arm to get a sniff underneath that Stiles protested. He laughed, clamped his arm to his side and said, "Damn it, Scott, you know I'm ticklish! And I don't have any bruises there, anyway. Really. I'm good. No more pain."

Scott turned his face up from where he was tucked against Stiles' side and smiled, "I'm glad, but that's not what I'm after." At Stiles' raised eyebrow, Scott said, "I'm not going to let you down, again. You're pack. You're _mine_. If you're missing, I will find you. But I can't do that if I don't know your smell, if I don't have it so deeply imprinted that I can find you anywhere." He finished softly, vehemently, "I'm not losing you, again."

"So... wait. So, you really are just sniffing me?" Stiles stared at Scott for a second, then smacked a hand to his forehead. "I should really make a joke about you and dogs and butt-sniffing, but... it's just too easy. It's beneath my dignity to even contemplate it."

Knowing his friend as well as he did, Scott had known that joke was coming, even though he'd meant every word he'd said with the utmost seriousness. He'd known it was coming and been prepared to laugh, to make light of it -- and he still wanted to, wanted to join his friend in slouching down on the bed and having a fit of giggles -- but his mind caught on the image in those words and... stuck. He crouched down over Stiles, who was still laughing at the joke he hadn't quite made, and took another quick sniff of that bruise on his cheek. Stiles barely noticed. Scott smiled to himself, shifted to sniff at the other boy's neck again, then further down to sniff at the myriad of bruises on his friend's chest and stomach.

As he traveled lower, Scott started to smell it -- a shift in the intensity of the scent that was his friend. Part of him -- the part that had been human just a few short months ago -- couldn't even believe he was thinking about doing what he was thinking about doing. But the part of him that was a newly born werewolf knew _exactly_ what it was doing. He shifted lower, still, planted a hand on either side of Stile's hips and bent his head to the point of Stile's hip, pressed his nose to the juncture between hip and thigh and just... inhaled. He didn't even notice when Stiles' laughter stuttered to a halt above him. He was overwhelmed by the sheer, heady scent of his friend. It was like smelling real chocolate after a lifetime of those stupid scratch-and-sniff stickers. He couldn't get enough, pressed his nose deeper, sniffed again.

It wasn't until Stiles let out a choked cry above him and buried his hand in Scott's hair that Scott realized exactly what it was he was doing... and who he was doing it to. He'd always been so overwhelmed when he was with Allison, so subsumed in just being near her, that he'd never had a chance to really understand his impulses around her, but this... oh, he was aware. He was aware and, for the first time, he understood.

And he wanted more.

Scott was still trying to figure out a way to phrase the question when Stiles whined from above him, "For fuck's sake, Scott, don't _stop_."

For just a second, Scott hesitated. He didn't... he wasn't sure that he liked guys the way that Stiles did. In fact, he was pretty sure he didn't. Well, he _had_ been sure he didn't. Actually, it didn't really matter if he didn't. This wasn't about that. Not for him. This was about Stiles. And Scott liked Stiles in pretty much every way it was possible for someone to like someone else... so what difference did it really make if he liked him this way, too?

Stiles was propped up on his elbow, now, staring at Scott with wide, slightly bruised eyes. He swallowed, and said, quietly, "Or, uh... were you just sniffing, again?"

Scott could hear it as Stiles' heart started pounding slow and heavy in his chest. He could almost _feel_ it -- the sinking sensation that would accompany that sound -- could see it in the way that the blood slowly drained from his friend's face. In answer, Scott gave Stiles a wide grin and pushed his leg to the side for easier access. Holding Stiles' gaze the entire time, Scott lowered his head, pressed his face into his friend's groin... and inhaled, again. As Stiles blushed a deep red above him, Scott's grin slid into a smirk and he said, "Well... not _just_ sniffing... unless that's all you want...?" He trailed off but let his voice lilt upwards at the end, made it a question.

Stiles let out a breath and dropped back onto the bed with a nervous laugh. He shook his head and said, "Oh _G-d_ , no," then tried to use his grip on Scott's hair to push him back where he wanted him.

Scott laughed and let himself be pushed, then gently disentangled his friend's hand from his hair and laid it to the side. Stiles immediately clenched it in the covers of his bed. Scott went back to his exploration by scent, sticking his nose into places he'd never have dreamed he'd want to put it before, but it felt right. And when he was done... he knew he'd never lose Stiles' scent, again. Wherever his friend was, Scott would be able to find him... but that didn't mean he'd had enough. He still wanted more.

Scott shifted back up, slowly started to lift Stiles' shirt. As the action revealed bruise after bruise after bruise, Scott found himself growling -- quietly at first, then louder and louder, until he was fairly vibrating with it, his eyes glowing yellow. Seeing that, Stiles pushed himself up and put a hand on Scott's face. His own eyes were wide, breathing a little fast, but he leaned in, pressed his lips to Scott's. That one action startled Scott right out of his anger and back into the moment. Somehow, he hadn't expected... fuck, he didn't really know _what_ he'd expected when he started this, but somehow even though he'd just had his nose in his friend's crotch, "kissing" and "Stiles" still weren't two words he'd ever expected to put together in his head.

Stiles pulled back then, winced, "Dude. Am I really that bad at this or are you still zoned out? I mean, I practiced. Not with someone else, but, you know... well, maybe you don't know. You were probably born an expert kisser."

Finally pulled completely from that moment of anger by the reassuring wash of Stiles' words, Scott couldn't help but laugh at that, and shook his head, "Nope. Not born an expert. Just zoned. I'm, uh... I'm with you now if you want to try that, again."

Stiles narrowed his eyes in mock consternation and said archly, "I notice you don't deny that you practiced."

Scott laughed again, lifted his hand and waved it in Stiles' face, "Inner wrist. You?"

Stiles rolled his eyes, " _Elbow_ , dude. Elbow. Your wrist? Zoned my ass. You probably _do_ suck at kissing. It's a wonder Allison didn't complain about--"

Scott cut him off by pressing their lips back together, then almost proved Stiles right by laughing when he realized that his friend was still trying to talk, even through the kiss. Instead, he slid his tongue along Stiles' lower lip, fought off another laugh when Stiles abruptly stopped moving, stopped trying to talk, hell, just about stopped breathing, too. Scott did it again, slid his tongue along Stile's lip, soothing the split there, before gently sliding it over that lip and into Stiles' mouth to rub against his tongue. After another moment, Stiles returned those initial caresses, clumsily at first, then with more skill as he learned the way of it. That was one thing Scott had always loved about Stiles -- though he never thought he'd appreciate it in quite this _way_ before -- he could be a very quick study at something when he had incentive.

Stiles lowered himself back to the bed and pulled Scott with him. Scott settled over him, rested the weight of his body between Stiles' legs as they fell open, then let out a startled growl when their lengths rubbed together through their pants. Stiles broke away from the kiss, tossed his head back and gasped. Scott couldn't resist, leaned over to gently clamp his teeth around the juncture of Stiles' neck and shoulder as he pressed down more firmly against him. Stiles let out another whine and wrapped his legs around Scott's waist to pull him closer. They moved against each other, spurred on by that feeling of contact, guided more by instinct than by skill, until Stiles stopped, pushed at Scott's shoulders.

Scott pulled back, pupils wide, almost comically dismayed by Stiles pushing him away. Stiles rolled his eyes and pushed harder, "Come on, man. I want to at least get out of my boxers."

Scott thought about that for a second, then smirked and pressed against him again. Stiles frowned but didn't help his case by rocking up to meet that thrust. Scott leaned over to whisper in his ear, "I'll be _more_ than happy to let you get out of your boxers, but you've got to let me go, first."

Stiles stared up at Scott for a moment, then blushed and lowered his legs from their position around Scott's waist, muttered, "Dude... my bad. Sorry about that."

Scott just laughed and shook his head, then shifted lower to help his friend out by pulling his boxers down and off. As that layer of clothing was stripped away, Scott was caught again by his friend's scent and lowered his head to take another sniff. Somewhere above him, Stiles said, "Oh, man. Here we go with the sniffing, again. Is that going to be a thing? Because, really, Scott it's a little-- oh my fucking G-d."

Scott smirked as Stiles buried his hand back into Scott's hair and stuffed his other hand into his mouth to muffle the noises he'd started making. Scott just grinned and took another long lick at the base of Stiles' cock. That scent that was purely Stiles... fuck, it was even stronger like this and it was driving him insane. He couldn't get enough. He nuzzled lower, licked at Stiles' balls, then lower, still, behind them. Stiles' grip on his hair tightened as Scott spread his legs to get at the tantalizing scent between them. Scott winced and paused to disentangle Stiles' hand and, again, relocate it back to the bedcovers. This time, Stiles didn't cooperate, instead moved his hand to grip at his own cock the minute Scott let go of his hand.

Scott let him do it, returned his attention to the new source of smell he'd found, gently tongued the spot right behind Stiles' balls. His friend thrashed above him, started moving his hand faster up and down his length. Scott slid his tongue lower, more turned on than he could have imagined by the soft, mewling cries Stiles was making and wanting him to make more of them. As he found Stiles' entrance and pushed his tongue gently inside, those cries took on a more urgent tone and Scott moaned in response, pulled out his own cock and gripped it almost painfully tightly in one hand. It didn't take long for either one of them from there. Scott pushed his tongue deeper, then a little deeper still, and Stiles cried out above him, then quickly stuffed the corner of his pillow into his mouth to muffle the sound as he came, and Scott sped up his own stroking until he spilled over his hand just a moment later.

He pulled back, then, rested against Stiles' thigh for a minute as they both calmed. Periodically as Scott's breath ghosted over Stiles' now softened cock, his friend would shiver -- a full body shudder that ended with his thighs clamping around Scott for a moment before releasing him. The fourth time it "accidentally" happened, Stiles made an irritated noise and grumped, "If you're not planning on starting something else down there, then get the hell up here and stop bugging me so I can sleep."

Scott laughed but did as asked, pulling Scott's spare blanket up and over both of them as he curled up along his friend's back. One thought nagged at his mind, though, as he drifted off to sleep. They should talk about this. It would change things. Scott was sure of it. So, really -- they should... talk...

* * *

The next morning when Stiles woke up, he was alone in his bed. For a moment, the fact that that seemed wrong confused him... until the memory of last night's events came barreling back at him like a freight train. Had he and Scott...? Oh, _shit_. That had to have been a dream. That had to have been just one _hell_ of a... dream... right? He lifted the covers, glanced down at himself and then blushed. He was naked. And sticky. And there was a wet spot further down on his blankets. **Shit**. But if they really had... had sex... last night... where the hell was Scott, now?

A voice yelled up from downstairs, "Stiles! You awake? I'm cooking breakfast!"

If anything, Stiles' blush deepened, but he yelled back, "Yeah, Dad! Uh... just let me grab a quick shower!" Because there was no way in hell that he was going downstairs smelling like he did. Damn it. His whole room smelled like sex. He was so kicking Scott's ass when he saw him later for not sticking around to help him clean up. Hell, he was going to have to take his bedspread to the Laundromat or the dry cleaners or something and why hadn't one of them thought to move it out of the way? And how the hell was he going to explain it to his dad if he got caught doing it?

Stiles' mind raced around the problem while he showered and dressed and he still hadn't come up with an answer by the time he got downstairs. He'd just have to keep his father out of his room until he could get the smell aired out -- ah! The window! At least he could open the window.

"You look a little flushed, Stiles." Stiles' father frowned at him as he turned away from the stove to face him, "You sure you don't want me to stay home?"

Stiles laughed off his father's concern and said, "No, no, no. I'm fine, Dad, really. Just hot from the shower, you know? Oh my G-d... Are you making chocolate chip pancakes?"

His father ducked his head and busied himself flipping said pancakes before he answered, "Now, don't you start about the carbs and how it's unhealthy, OK? I just wanted..." He trailed off.

Behind his father's back, Stiles smiled a soft smile. Like last night's hot chocolate, these pancakes were equal parts congratulatory for the game and conciliatory for Stiles' failed attempt at romance... and they were his father's way of showing he cared. Stiles wouldn't dream of taking that away from him. Plus… dude. Chocolate chip pancakes. He walked up behind his dad, wrapped one arm around his shoulders in a light hug and said, "Chocolate chip pancakes are the exception to the no-carbs rule, Dad. Didn't I ever mention it?"

His father shook his head with a wry smile and said, "No, Stiles. I don't think you ever did. I'll remember that one, though. Seems like a good exception."

Comfort offered, comfort accepted -- simple as that. Stiles got out the milk and the strawberry syrup while his dad finished up with the pancakes and they ate in companionable silence. Stiles couldn't help but notice, however, that his father kept shooting an occasional odd glance his way. Finally, Stiles couldn't take it anymore. When they were just about done cleaning up the dishes, he said, "OK, Dad. What is it?"

His father jumped, like he hadn't expected to get caught, then shrugged and said, "Your face. I expected it to look a lot worse this morning -- bruises always do after you've slept on them -- but it actually doesn't look too bad." He took Stiles' face gently in his hands and turned it to the side, "There's less swelling than I expected and the bruising's no worse than it was yesterday." He patted Stiles' unbruised cheek and smiled, "I'm glad. I don't like to see you hurt."

Unbidden, Stiles' mind overlaid Scott's words of the night before with his father's, _~You **are** hurt. I didn't... Stiles, I swear I didn't know... I didn't realize until you'd gotten to the warehouse and I saw the bruises...~_ \-- the bruises that Scott's touch had pulled the pain and inflammation from. He'd have to remember to thank Scott for it... if his friend bothered to show his damned face any time around him today.

Once they finished cleaning up and Stiles had reassured his father that he was fine -- and his father had even gone so far as to graciously accept the healthier-optioned lunch that Stiles made for him -- Stiles' father left for work. That left Stiles alone in the house. Finally. He ran back up the stairs, intent on opening up the window to start airing out his room... and stopped short in the doorway.

The window was already open. Not only was the window already open, but someone was in his room spraying the stain on his bedcovers with a can of Spot Shot. That someone was Scott. Stiles slumped against the doorframe and waved a hand wildly in Scott's direction, "Dude. _Door_ , remember? And where the hell were you this morning?"

Scott shrugged, eyes fixed on the stain he was working on, "I didn't figure you'd want to explain what I was doing here to your dad. For that matter, I didn't want to explain why I wasn't home to my mom. I figured it was easier this way."

What the hell...? This was wrong. This was all wrong. This wasn't the Scott from last night, the Scott who'd known exactly what he'd wanted and had so confidently called him family. This wasn't even the Scott Stiles had known all his life. This Scott wouldn't meet his eyes. Stiles' heart skipped a beat, then started pounding. There was only one possible answer. Scott was ashamed of him... of what they'd done. That had to be it.

When Stiles' heart started its erratic beating, Scott finally looked up, eyes wide as he took in Stiles' pale face, the way he was suddenly clutching at the doorframe like a lifeline. That wouldn't do. Stiles didn't want to make this any harder on them than it was already and he sure as hell wasn't losing his best friend over this. If Scott needed this to be a casual, bi-curious phase, one night stand kind of thing, then Stiles would make it one. He forced a smile onto his face and said, "Well, I appreciate you coming over to help clean up the mess, but hey, it's not really a big deal. I jerk off all the time. Now that I'm thinking clearly, my dad probably wouldn't have even noticed the smell."

At that last word, Scott's eyes widened further, his nostrils flared and he took a step closer. Stiles backed up, his own eyes wide, remembering how that whole mess had started last night. Scott immediately put his hands up in a calming gesture and gave back that step of ground, muttering, "Sorry... shit. I'm sorry, Stiles. Really, I just... I have no idea what came over me."

Stiles shrugged, took a few steps into the room. When nothing happened, he crossed over the rest of the way to his computer and sat down on the desk chair, turned around to jiggle the mouse to wake up the screen as Scott went back to his scrubbing. He shrugged, "No worries, man. I get it. It was an adrenaline thing or a pack thing or a rebound thing. It's fine."

Stiles became aware of the cessation of scrubbing noises at about the same time as his chair was yanked away from the desk and spun around, Scott's arms caging him in place where he sat as his friend gripped the chair arms. Before Stiles could even summon the breath to ask him, "What the hell?" Scott let out a low, warning growl. Stiles prudently kept his mouth shut… for once.

Scott took a deep breath then dropped to his knees in front of Stiles and said, "I wish you'd stop saying that." At Stiles' confused look, he said, "That you're 'fine'. Stiles... you're not 'fine'. I can hear it in your voice, I can see it in your face and I can _smell_ it on you. It's not fine, _you're_ not fine... it's not fine."

Stiles' hands fluttered uselessly in his lap and he finally said, "I'm trying to give you the easy out, man. You don't... I know you're not like me, OK? I know you like girls. I'm just... Scott... can't you let me let you off the hook graciously?"

Scott took both of Stiles' hands in his and dropped his forehead to rest against them, shook his head, "Oh, Stiles... no. No, I can't." He looked up again, a soft smile on his face, "Stiles, I'm not sorry about what we did last night. I'm sorry about how I reacted when I woke up before you this morning." He let that sink in for a second before pulling Stiles' hands to his chest, "I told you last night -- you're _mine_. More than pack, remember? More than family. I'm not ashamed of you, Stiles -- I never could be -- but ashamed of _myself_? Oh, yeah. That I can do."

Stiles blinked slowly at his friend, trying to come to grips with what Scott was saying. Scott smiled as he felt Stiles' hands twitching in his own as they tried to keep pace with those faster than light thoughts. Finally Stiles said, "So... you _are_ into guys?"

Scott winced, then sighed, "How about we just say that I'm definitely into girls, but I'm apparently also into _you_ and not worry about trying to define it any more than that, OK?"

Lips sliding into a smirk, Stiles leaned forward and said, "How _would_ you even define that? Hetero-and-Stiles-sexual? Heh. 'Stiles-sexual'. I think I like the sound of that. So... wait." Stiles frowned, "So, you want this to be more than just a one-off thing? Because, dude... that's treading dangerously close to rebound territory." At Scott's scowl, Stiles pulled his hands free and gestured emphatically at him, " _Dude_ , you just said. Last night." At Scott's continued frown, Stiles rubbed a hand over his shorn hair and made a noise of frustration, "When did I become the relationship expert, here? You _just_ broke up with Allison and then immediately jumped into bed with me. That is like... the very _definition_ of a rebound relationship."

Scott's eyes narrowed, then the confusion in them cleared and he inched closer to Stiles, pushing his chair back against the desk and easing between his legs. He said, "Stiles, this is different."

"Because I'm pack, I know," Stiles interrupted.

Scott rolled his eyes, then leaned forward to briefly bump their noses together. "No. Not because you're pack." Sensing Stiles' next interruption before he could voice it, Scott added hastily, "Or because you're family or because you're 'more' than pack." He smiled, cupped Stiles' cheek in his hand, "Stiles... it's because it's _you_. You could never be my rebound because everything _started_ with you. I can't rebound to you because you're the only one I'll never leave -- girlfriends, werewolves, hunters, whatever... you're it. You're the one who's always at my side... and that's how I want to keep it -- you and me; the Dynamic Duo, remember?"

Stiles stared at him for a moment, then his lips twitched into a smile, "So... definitely more than a one-off, then?"

Scott laughed, brought his other hand up to gently cup Stiles' bruised cheek and pulled him close for a brief kiss. "As many 'offs' as you want, Stiles."

Stiles pulled back to lift a finger and mockingly shake it in Scott's face, "I'm holding you to that, man. I can handle a lot of 'offs'. Multiple 'offs' a day, in fact."

Scott grinned wolfishly at him as he pressed closer, followed it as the chair started to shift across the floor with his added weight, "That's kind of exactly what I had in mind, actually..."

"Oh... wait. Wait. Scott, what're you-- oh shit. Scott you're going to break the--!"

As the desk chair tipped over backwards and Scott landed on top of Stiles, they both winced at the impact and the cracking sound the chair made when it hit the ground under them. Scott picked his head up off of Stiles' chest and said sheepishly, "Oops?"

Stiles just groaned and draped a hand over his eyes, "OK, first of all... toppling over furniture as a prelude to sex is _not_ as romantic as the movies always make it look and secondly... you owe me a new desk chair and next time we're having sex in your room."

"That's three things."

"So it is, Scott. So it is."

"Wait. Why is it better for us to wreck _my_ room?"

Stiles smiled and shrugged, "Well, lately you've been wrecking your room pretty consistently just from spooky werewolf spillover -- which your mom already knows about, I might add, unlike my father -- so, there's an easy cover right there, right? Your mom probably wouldn't even blink and she's already used to the mess."

Scott frowned, then brightened, "Or we could just try being more careful." At Stiles' raised eyebrow, Scott sighed, "Yeah, you're right. That's probably a lost cause."

As Scott moved to get off of him, Stiles grabbed the front of his shirt with a put-upon roll of his eyes, "Oh, the hell with it. We've already made the mess. We may as well enjoy it. You'll just have to help me clean it up, again, when we're done."

Scott laughed, then picked Stiles up and tossed him in the direction of the bed. When Stiles landed, he let out a yipe and immediately scooted sideways with a scowl, "Dude! Did you have to toss me right on top of the new basketball-sized wet spot you made?"

Scott at least had the decency to blush as he laughed, "Sorry."

Stiles started to laugh, too, as he waved him over, "That's OK, man. Really. I guess we're just going to have to practice or something."

Scott slowly stalked his way towards Stiles and climbed over him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck and starting to press light, nipping kisses along its length. Just before his lips closed over Stiles', he said, "I think I could get used to this kind of practice."

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
> _Questions, comments, coconuts?_
> 
>  
> 
> *ducks flying coconuts*


End file.
